


Tailors Do It Better

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Disabled Character, Complicated Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Dom/sub, Humor, M/M, Power Dynamics, Ridiculous, Sex Work, Tailor Vetinari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 23:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17990504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: “Those dungarees are finished.”“Gods, you’re a demon,” Sandra said, picking up the dungarees and checking the strength on the patching. “You know, Havelock, you really would make a good tailor.” He liked her quite a bit.“I was just saying something along those lines myself,” Havelock murmured, and he looked back to the hemming on his trousers.





	Tailors Do It Better

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely the fault of the OTD Discord enabling (and encouraging!) my terrible misbehaviour. This is just that AU where Vetinari and Drumknott actually have fun. Too much fun, in fact!

“And who instigated the _physical_ altercation?” Mr Vetinari asked quietly. He was leaning back in his chair, quite pointedly not looking at either of them: his icy gaze was focused on his needlework, which was – as the whole city knew – ever present in the master’s lap. The movement of his fingers, swift and deft with the needle, never faltering, never letting the thread get tangled, and never catching on his fingers or his palm, was hypnotic, and they both held their breaths, staring down at his lap.

“Er,” said Sallie Longerton, biting her lip, and then regretting it, because it was already fat and swollen from receiving a punch.

“Well,” said Bessie Greer, rubbing at the scratch on the side of her jaw. “Don’t know, sir.”

“Not sure,” Sallie repeated.

It had been Bessie. It usually was, when her and Sallie got at each other, but it didn’t normally go this far – in all honesty, it had always been a struggle for the two of them to share a house together, let alone a _room_ , as they’d actually grown up in the same house, as little girls. Old habits died hard, but it wasn’t so easy to wrestle one another when they were both so much _bigger_ now, and both a good deal more possessive.

“I see,” Mr Vetinari said. His expression revealed nothing, and they looked down at his masterful embroidery, seeing the vague shape of the Tower of Art as he painted in coloured threads the Ankh-Morpork city skyline. “Is it likely to occur again?”

Bessie glanced at Sallie, who met her gaze.

“We didn’t mean nothing by it,” Sallie said. “Just that Bessie hit me harder’n I expected her to, and then I lost my temper—”

“And I didn’t mean to hit you that hard, _honest_ ,” Bessie said. “I am sorry, Sallie.”

“And I’m so sorry I tripped you up—”

“No, no, you didn’t, it’s my wobbly heel is what did it, and it was right bad of us to go over the bannister like that. Are you sure your ankle’s okay?”

“Oh, yeah, I think so. And I… I’m sorry. It _was_ your brassiere.”

Bessie clenched her hands into fists, her anger making itself known again. “You _knew_ , then—"

Mr Vetinari didn’t clear his throat. He wasn’t the sort of man to do things like that – he was very genteel in a way a lot of the ex-Assassins were, the men and the women, with their soft ways and delicate manners. What he _did_ do was look up, pinning both of them with his gaze, and for a moment, his needle stopped its regular movements through the cloth in his embroidery hoops.

Bessie shut her mouth with an audible click. Sallie swallowed loudly.

Mr Vetinari’s gaze went from Bessie, to Sallie, and then back. “Ladies,” he said quietly, “have you perhaps considered altering your rooming arrangements? I believe Miss O’Pillory is quarrelling, as of late, with Mr Gord, and the two of them have each been hoping to alter their rooming arrangements without leaving the house. They, too, have a twin room, I believe with similar ample wardrobe space.”

“Their room’s smaller’n ours,” Bessie said. It wasn’t quite defiant – she wasn’t _stupid_ – but it was somewhat mulish. “I know the rent is lower, but—"

Mr Vetinari looked at her for a long, long moment, and the world seemed to narrow down to the golden point of his needle. Bessie realized she was holding her breath only when her chest started to hurt, and she turned her head away, heaving in a gasp.

“Yes, sir,” Bessie said.

“Yes, sir,” Sallie said.

“I do not like to become involved in personal disputes, where they might be avoided,” Mr Vetinari said. “I should hope you two might learn to overcome your differences without destroying the house in the future.”

“We’re very sorry,” Sallie said. “About the stair. Are you, um— You’re not going to kick us out?”

Mr Vetinari sighed, and he set his needlework aside, leaning forward. “Dear girl, did either of you _intend_ to bowl over the bannister?”

“No,” Sallie said.

“No,” Bessie said. “It’s my fault, just because I’m so heavy, an—”

Mr Vetinari held up his hand for silence, and once he had it, he said, “The bannister might be fixed. Had either of _you_ landed very badly, you might not have been. That is my concern more than petty matters of carpentry, which might be remedied in an afternoon. I will add the cost of the repair to your respective rents, over the next four weeks or so, that you might pay it incrementally.”

Sallie nodded her head, but at Bessie’s blank look, Mr Vetinari added patiently, “Bit-by-bit.” There was no condescension in his tone, and he even gave them a very small smile. It was not an unpleasant smile – it was actually rather warm, albeit fragile, like a smile that had been painted on a china plate.

“Thank you, Mr Vetinari,” Bessie mumbled.

“Thank you,” Sallie said. “A lot of madams would have us out on our ear over this.”

“Poppycock,” Mr Vetinari said, standing gracefully to his feet[1]. “I believe Miss O’Pillory is breaking on the hour, and you might speak with her then.”

They each gave him earnest nods, and then they bustled out of the room: already, Mr Vetinari could hear the irritation in Bessie’s tone, and he sighed to himself. Despite himself, he smiled the fond smile of one who knows _precisely_ how a situation is to unfold, and he took up his cane from beside his desk, leaning heavily on it as he moved to the door of his office.

It was a small room, warm and cosy, and he stood for a second beside the fire, his hand outstretched, that he might feel the flicker of heat against his palm, but equally, it settled into his bad leg, inspiring a dull ache that was more soothing, at this point, than painful. His office was decorated in dark, gossamer reds, reflecting well against the warm notes of the wood, but it was unscented. Most of his counterparts, in likewise bordellos across the city, he was aware, put oils in their lamps or pots of potpourri in their offices, but the sickly scent gave him a dreadful headache, and it was bad enough withstanding the various awful perfumes and colognes his boys and girls favoured.

Not yet walking over the threshold and into the corridor, he looked at the tall mirror in the narrow hallway, just outside. At the very end of it, he could see Ed Hickory, one of the older boys, help cleaning up the splinters and fragments of wood on the carpet. Lined up on the chairs outside of his office, waiting, were five clerks.

As of yesterday’s official vote, Mr Vetinari was now Head of the Guild of Seamstresses, and he had decided he _needed_ one. It was one thing, to organise his own accounts, and to keep his children in order, but _guild_ business he wanted to take seriously, _very_ seriously. The Guild had more influence than most would expect at council meetings, and Mr Vetinari wished to expand that influence somewhat.

The clerks, primarily, seemed somewhat flustered. Young Ed kept smiling at one of them, and he was flushed pink, but didn’t seem to be quite able to look away; two of the others were sweating visibly, and fidgeting in their places. One of them, Mr Vetinari noted with _distinct_ disapproval, was standing up, and was smiling as he leaned over Euphoria Fastition as she read her book. She was enjoying the attention, but it was plain she wasn’t truly _interested._

The last one sat closest to the door, and didn’t seem particularly bothered by his surroundings. He had the neat clothes, neat hair, that the rest of the clerks did, but they hadn’t been ruffled or made messy with nerves: his cheeks were unblushing, and his gaze was focused forward, on the opposite wall. With a sort of distant, polite curiosity, he appeared to be examining the various segments of embroidery on display, and his gaze came to land on one of Mr Vetinari’s _favourites_. It had been one of his first embroidery projects, when first he had learned the art, and was a simple slogan[2], surrounded by carefully artificed flowers and vines.

He moved slowly forward, ignoring the twinge in his leg as he did so, and leaned just outside of the doorway of his office, leaning in to breathe in this clerk’s ear. He was, Mr Vetinari guessed, around twenty-five, albeit with somewhat youthful features, and Mr Vetinari could smell the brilliantine in his hair, which was mercifully without scent.

“What do you say,” Mr Vetinari said softly, watching the hairs on the back of the younger man’s neck stand on end at the hot breath in his ear, “that I bring you into my office, and have you over my desk?”

The clerk didn’t flinch. His gaze remained forward, and he seemed to think on his answer for a moment before he replied, “A job interview may better be served, Mr Vetinari, if I merely sit _across_ from your desk, as is the tradition.”

“Who said anything about an interview?”

“You did, sir. You put an advertisement in the _Times_.”

“Ah, but that was before I got a glimpse of those handsome eyes and that _pert_ backside. Have you been with a man before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you like it?” His voice was low and husky, dripping with sexual invitation, but the clerk still didn’t draw away from him, keeping his place _most_ admirably. A very slight flush was beginning to burn on his cheeks, but his expression didn’t change, and nor did he blink any more than was usual.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

“Amateur, I suppose?”

The clerk’s lip twitched, but he didn’t laugh. “I suppose so, sir.”

“Have you _ever_ had it from a professional?”

“No, sir.”

Mr Vetinari leaned closer, his nose brushing against the clerk’s hair, his lips _almost_ touching the shell of his ear. “Would you like to?”

The clerk turned his head, leaning back slightly so that they looked one another in the eyes, and to keep his face was dragging against Mr Vetinari’s nose. His expression was quite serious, even with the blush on his cheeks, and he said, in a very measured tone, “With all due respect, Mr Vetinari, I do believe in putting business before pleasure.”

“In this house, my dear, they are one and the same.”

“In the bedrooms, perhaps,” the clerk maintained, although his tone was not impolite. “In the office, there ought be a rigorous separation.”

“ _Rigorous_?” Mr Vetinari repeated. “Indeed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A handsome blush you have there, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Do you blush all over?”

“I’ve never thought to check, sir.”

“I could, if you like.”

“Business first, sir.”

“So _stern!_ I don’t know if I could handle a stern secretary, why, however should I keep my mind on my work with _that_ sort of distraction?” The clerk’s breath, Mr Vetinari noted, smelled faintly of peppermint, and he was breathing just slightly faster than he was a moment ago, but still, still, he was keeping a _manful_ control of his expression. He wasn’t especially handsome, really, but that didn’t much matter: it was rare that Vetinari came across a young man with such _admirable_ self-possession, and the concept was becoming more exciting with every passing moment.

“I would endeavour, sir, to be unobtrusive, were you to accept me for the position.”

“What’s your name, young man?” Vetinari asked, delighting in the slight shift of the clerk’s lips, no doubt as he restrained himself from licking them.

“Drumknott, sir. Rufus Drumknott.”

“Rufus Drumknott,” Mr Vetinari repeated, his lips quirked in amusement. “A very stiff upper lip you have, _indeed_.”

“Thank you, sir. This is a test, sir?” Drumknott asked, and Vetinari looked at him blankly.

“Hm?” Mr Vetinari asked, arching an eyebrow. “A _test_?”

“Of my composure, sir?”

“Ah,” Mr Vetinari said. “Of _course_. And how remarkably you’ve passed. You three, you can go.” He spoke dismissively to the two sweating clerks and the one leaning over Euphoria, and they each took one look at his expression and rushed out. The last one looked at him, his mouth open, gaping like a fish. “Mr Hickory,” Vetinari said, smiling at the clerk. “Do look after this mess, would you?”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Ed said, with pleasure, and the clerk giggled nervously when Ed took him by the hand and lead him down the corridor.

“I suppose we’ll need to buy some more filing cabinets?” Mr Vetinari asked in a put-upon tone as Drumknott rose to his feet.

“Perhaps, sir,” Drumknott said. “I take this to mean I have the position?”

“Come in, Drumknott,” Vetinari said, ignoring the question and answering it in one, and he let Drumknott step into his office before he closed the door behind them.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

At nineteen years old, Havelock Vetinari moved through the streets of Ankh-Morpork with a quiet, easy confidence, one often to be expected in young men his age, the will-be leaders of their families, future lords, when they came of age. As a recent graduate of the Assassins' Guild school, he had more reason to be confident than most: no one in Ankh-Morpork, seeing his sleek, black clothes and neat black cloak, would dare to stand in his way, nor to threaten him.

Not unless they had a death wish, anyway.

He was to embark, that very eve, upon the first leg of the Grand Sneer, and how long he would be away from Ankh-Morpork, the city that bore him, he knew not. It was a fine day, the sun catching pleasantly on the natural, brown smog that formed above Ankh-Morpork on any given day, and he was catching the coach from just outside the city, cutting through the Whore Pits to hasten his retreat.

Lord Snapcase, unfortunately, growing more mad as the years pass by, had become focused on the up-and-coming graduates from the Assassins' Guild in recent years, wishing to ensure he might avoid any of those who would do him harm, or potentially do him harm. Havelock was not, in himself, a threat: his aunt, after all, had been instrumental in Lord Snapcase's neat ascension to the office of Patrician, but with that said—

Well.

When one incites a rebellion once, there is no reason they should not be willing to incite another, and Snapcase was well aware of that.

One day, Havelock knew, he would be Patrician himself.

He had decided, at twelve years old or so, when he had been a year enrolled at the Assassins' Guild school, and when he had voiced this intention to Aunt Bobbi, she had arched her eyebrows, glancing up from the drooling cat in her lap, but had then inclined her head.

"You will, of course," she had noted, with a small smile, "have to devote yourself to discipline."

"Yes," Havelock had agreed. "I expect so."

And that had been that.

She had already been opposed to Winder even then, but there had been a more refined plan from then on, more refined, more particular... He had learned strategy from her, and in working with one another, they had come up with a plan of action. In the meantime, embarking on the Grand Sneer will do him very well, but when he returned—

Oh, yes. When he _returned_.

When he saw the horse, it was as if time – much like his reverie – froze.

There was a poetry in this, he supposed, albeit one that Snapcase (or whatever assassin he had hired[3]) had likely not considered. Havelock’s own father, Vincenzo, had been assassinated in quite the same way: a member of the Alchemists' Guild had drugged the animal with some incensing powder, and it had gone quite mad, had kicked him in the head and left him with a shattered skull on the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

This horse had the same frenzy in its eyes, and Havelock moved, fast enough to avoid the animal's hoofbeat when it came up toward his face, his neck, but not fast enough to avoid it completely. It was utter agony, and he felt the bone do more than break, felt it shatter as powerful hooves came hard against his hip, and he was thrown by the force of it, landing hard toward the gutter on the other side of the road. He didn't cry out: the pain was all-encompassing, flaring through him like the incandescent burn of hellfire, the worst he had ever felt, but that didn't matter. He was a Vetinari; he was an Assassin. He did not scream, and that was that.

Heaving in a very slow, measured breath, he drew himself up, leaning heavily on the heel of his hands, and he was grateful for the fact that he hadn't fallen right into the gutter proper. The stench was already thick in his nostrils - rainwater and fetid waste and the rotting mulch of flowers cast aside, so many flowers bestowed upon disinterested parties, as if they were truly lovers. Such was the scent of the Whore Pits.

"Here, help me with him, Sadie," said a young woman – older than Havelock, perhaps twenty-six, twenty-seven, but still young. "Are you alright?"

"My hip's dislocated," Havelock said, uncomfortable to find how distant his own voice sounded, or that dizziness was overtaken him. "I believe my femur is fractured quite badly, and I shudder to consider the state of my knee. Miss Palm, isn't it?" She frowned at him, suspicious, but she didn’t pull away.

"Yes," Rosemary Palm said, and Havelock nodded, his head lolling quite without his permission to one side. "Can you— You can't stand."

"I don't believe so," Havelock mumbled. His vision was darkening at its edges, as stubbornly as he attempted to keep his gaze forward, and he looked at the slightly bleary image of a woman with a sewing basket... Sadie. The other figure was Dotsie. The Agony Aunts. "Miss Palm, I really... I really don't think you need to—"

"Oh, shut up," Palm said, which he did, because his head lolled back entirely, and he was drowned in darkness.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Have you ever worked for a tailor, Mr Drumknott?” Vetinari asked as he moved to set a small teakettle on the small burner in the corner of his office, precisely for the purpose. He had discovered it was very useful indeed, to have hot tea to hand when one was attempting to calm one’s children from ripping out one another’s throats, or when one was quarrelling with other madams and masters.

 Drumknott sat neatly at the seat across from Vetinari’s desk, drawing a journal from his notebook and apparently readying to make notes with a pencil.

“No, sir,” Drumknott said.

“You know, Mr Drumknott, if you keep calling me _sir_ , I might forget myself, and spank you.”

“I’m currently sitting down, sir,” Drumknott reminded him. “When I stand, we might address that potential issue.”

“You remind me of myself, Drumknott, when I was but a young and innocent youth.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“ _Cheeky!”_ Vetinari said, with glee. “Mr Drumknott, are you flirting with me?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir. Would you like to—”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Vetinari murmured, leaning back against his desk.

“—discuss my duties as your clerk?”

Vetinari frowned. In fact, he did not frown. He _pouted_.

Drumknott gave him a pleasant, secretarial smile.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Havelock woke in a very small, perfumed room, laid down on a comfortable bed. Comfortable, but not especially expensive, he noted: the sheets were red, and did not, he was surprised to note, smell of sex[4]. It was the perfume in the room that really assaulted his sensitive nostrils, the sickly scent going right to his head, and he grunted, shifting his head on the soft pillows. The room was neatly furnished, although the furniture had seen better days.

He recognized the form of Doctor Lawn, sitting on the side of the bed – the side on which he was uninjured. He was currently listening to Havelock’s heartbeat with a stethoscope, and Havelock watched him for a long few moments.

"You could have died," Doctor Lawn said mildly, choosing to speak first.

"I believe that was the intention," Havelock replied softly. "Don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," Lawn agreed, and Havelock stared at his own leg, a mess of bandages and thick brace made of wood, keeping the leg stiff. Later on, Lawn would create a cast of some sort of plaster concrete, to keep the leg still. There was a desperate ache in his bones, deep in his leg, and it ran right up one side of his body. "Here," Lawn murmured, and Havelock felt his fingers drag against the sole of his foot. "You feel that?"

"Yes. As usual."

"And this?" Lawn's fingers touched each of his toes, and Havelock nodded. He could even wriggle the toes, he found, albeit with some pain from his leg. "You were very lucky, young man."

"Oh, very lucky indeed," Havelock echoed, without enthusiasm. He had never, in his life, felt so entirely… “They’ll have me out of the Guild for this, Doctor Lawn.”

“Yes,” Doctor Lawn agreed quietly. He didn’t say anything more: he didn’t need to. The Assassins’ Guild expected perfection, and more than that, they expected a perfect _aesthetic_. It was plain that the damage to his leg, even when the cast was gone – and how long that would take, Havelock didn’t even want to guess – would likely be permanent. Even were he able to walk unaided, at the end of it all… “Rosie’s called for your aunt. You want some opium, for the pain?”

“No, thank you,” Havelock said quietly.

“Young man—”

Havelock shook his head, and Lawn sighed, but rose, and Havelock looked to the doorway, where a young woman was watching him. Havelock knew who she was, too: she was a needlewoman, a friend of Rosemary Palm’s, and the two of them lived together. Aunt Bobbi had mentioned it, had mentioned that she did _real_ seamstressing, and was not, in fact, a Seamstress.

“Miss Battye, I take it?”

“You knew Rosie’s name, too, she said,” Battye said slowly. She was very short, and plump: with a sort of defiant manner of holding herself. She reminded Havelock, distantly, of a hen.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I know a few things, here and there. I’ve taken quite some time in the Whore Pits, practising certain skills. Skulking, lurking, loitering, and so forth.” Miss Battye narrowed her eyes. Havelock sighed, and then said quietly, “Roberta Messerole is my aunt. Madam, I expect you call her.”

Slow understanding passed over Miss Battye’s face, and then it fell, and she looked down at Havelock’s leg with an expression of some quiet pity. Doctor Lawn had cut the trousers quite away on that side, and his tunic was slightly open at his chest, likely so he could take his pulse more easily. He had never, he noticed with a distant, amused novelty, been quite so undressed in front of a woman before.

“You going to be able to walk again?” Miss Battre asked, slowly.

“With effort,” Havelock replied, “I’m sure.”

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“My children pay rent for their own lodgings, which for the most part, are shared within the house, and then there are six bedrooms for entertaining, on top of the welcome lounge. Clean sheets between every session, and two of those rooms have baths as well as well as beds. They run from a hot water tank in the attic. This house currently hosts five girls and three boys. The youngest is young Mr Gord: he’s nineteen.

“We don’t take anyone under the age of  _eighteen_ , although they’re street legal from sixteen onward.  _Ridiculous_ ,” Mr Vetinari added, shaking his head. “Rates are set by the individual, although the house sets a baseline for certain acts, and indeed, for the rent of a room. As well as the children, we hire two cleaners – Pale Light On The River and Of The Silk Shimmer – and we hire a troll for security. Her name is Ruby.”

He leaned forward, looking at Drumknott’s journal. His hand moved very fast as he wrote – with his right hand, although Vetinari was fairly certain the young man was left-handed – in a complicated shorthand, very fluently and fluidly.

“You don’t have any issue with goblins?” Mr Vetinari asked.

“No, sir,” Drumknott said.

“Trolls, gnolls?”

“No, sir.”

“Undead?”

“No, sir.”

“I believe diversity ought be the watchword of the Guild, Mr Drumknott.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unconstrained by gender, sex, race, social class, sexual preference, or disability, Mr Drumknott.”

“Very admirable, sir.”

“You aren’t prejudiced, Mr Drumknott?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Drumknott said.

“Against  _whom_?”

“Somewhat against other men, sir. Particularly the big and rowdy sort, sir.”

“Oh, well,” Mr Vetinari said, with a vague gesture of one thin, veined hand. “That’s just common sense.”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You don’t work in here,” Havelock said quietly to Rosie, who was sitting at her boudoir, her elbows braced on her knees as they waited for Bobbi to come. She had been outside of the city, Havelock knows, and he doesn’t know how long she will take, how long…

“No,” Rosie agreed. “No, we have a room downstairs, for that. This was originally two rooms, but we put in that wall in a weekend, after I did a few favours for some carpenters.” She waited for Havelock to make some comment, looking at him expectantly – presumably, she was expecting him to take a crack at the “favours” remark.

“I expect you’d keep her up at night, if you worked in here,” he said. “What with the thin wall, I mean, not to mention coming up and down the stairs.”

“Yes,” Rosie said guardedly. Havelock nodded his head. “You’re really Madam’s nephew?”

“Yes. My father was her brother.”

“Didn’t know she had a nephew.”

“Very adept at keeping her cards close to her chest, is my aunt. So close, in fact, that they are usually secreted in her corsetry, that you not even know she has them.” Rosie laughed. She was staring at him, her head tilted to the side in curiosity, in fascinated interest, and Havelock said, “Thank you very much, for your act of charity.”

“You might have died in the street,” Rosie said, “if we hadn’t picked you up.”

Havelock shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps so.”

“That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“I was an Assassin. We have a funny idea of death.”

“Was?”

“Was.”

“Bit young to retire, aren’t you?”

“I’m sure that before the week is out, Doctor Follett will visit me, wherever I am, to have a word.” He gestured, demonstratively, to the cast on his leg, and Rosie seemed to understand.

“What will you _do_ , then?”

“I’m certain I have no idea,” Havelock said. His tone was so utterly lacking in emotion or expression that Rosie leaned back slightly, crossing her arms over her prodigious bosom. Her face betrayed sympathy, disgust, helpless upset… Havelock’s own betrayed nothing whatsoever.

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said.

“Yes,” Havelock said, slightly dully. “Me too.”

“D’you want a cuppa, Havelock?” Sandra asked as she came in from the landing, already with a tray of tea to hand, and he nodded more out of obligation than anything else. Nonetheless, his throat was dry, and as he sipped at the strong, hot tea, he felt it soothe it, somewhat.

There was a knock on the door downstairs, and immediately, Rosie moved out of the room, leaving Havelock alone with Sandra. He watched with interest as she moved wooden clop into a sock, and then began neatly drawing her needle around the sock’s heel, creating loose loops that encircled the knot: then, with a practised ease, she drew the dark wool through the loops and created a bridge over the sock’s heel, patching up the gap.

“I expect you’ve never had a sock darned,” Sandra said. She sounded smug, and amused.

“Yes,” Havelock agreed, albeit with some good-humoured irony. “I know not the price of milk, and I have never known what it is to be cold nor hungry.” She laughed, and he looked at her hands, which were plump, with neatly manicured fingernails, and rather pale. Her fingers were dotted over with little scars and callouses, no doubt from the drive of the needle, but she was very dexterous with them, and the sock seemed darned with no time at all.

“Do you know how to sew?” Sandra asked.

Havelock considered the scar on his _unbeared_ thigh, where he had once had to one-handedly suture shut his own wound, doing his best to see in the dim lamp light through the thick mess of arterial blood. “I can sew a little,” he said modestly, and she gave him a warm smile.

There was noise on the stair, and Havelock looked to Aunt Bobbi as she entered, her expression tight. Immediately, she was on the bed beside him, her hand carded in her hair, and he let her drag his head against her breast, that she might kiss the top of it. She never did this sort of thing in public, and _usually_ not in front of company. Even in private, this was very rare contact indeed, but he supposed the circumstances allowed for such things. He let his eyes close, leaning just slightly into Bobbi’s chest and feeling the way her fingers tightened in his hair, feeling her other arm wrap loosely around his shoulder. Havelock’s own hands remained loosely clenched into fists in his lap: one couldn’t go _mad_ , after all.

“He’s going to be alright,” said Lawn, who must have come in when Bobbi had. “But I’m afraid I wouldn’t move him for a while, not to put in a coach, anyway. He’ll need a few days here, in one place, and Easy Street is on the other side of the city.”

“He can stay here,” Rosie said, apparently without hesitation. “I can stay downstairs.”

“Oh, Rosemary, _thank you_ ,” Havelock heard Bobbi said, softly and full of warmth, and she clutched a little tighter at him. “There’s no chance of blood poisoning?”

“We’ll keep an eye out for infection,” Lawn said. “But the sensation in his foot, his leg, is fine. It’s a very bad break, I think. I wouldn’t want to risk opening you up, lad, if the sensation’s good all the way down, but—”

“But it won’t be the same,” Havelock said. “Yes, I understand.”

“And if you _did_ do a surgery?”

“Even then,” Lawn said. “I’m a doctor, not a miracle-worker. Maybe one day, I’d be able to do something, but…”

“But not now,” Bobbi said. “Of course, we will reimburse you, Rosemary, for the—”

“Oh, Madam, no, you don’t have to—”

“And yet, it seems I will,” Bobbi said. “You’re a good girl, Rosemary.” It was laden with an implication that Havelock was making the active decision to completely ignore.

“Oh, don’t say _that_ ,” Rosie said, tone equally flirtatious. “You’ll do awful things for my professional reputation.”

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“And you’re now retired?” Drumknott asked quietly.

“Mmm, not  _retired_ , no,” Mr Vetinari said, and he leaned forward, putting his palms on the arms of Drumknott’s chair and leaning in toward him. Drumknott was actually getting rather good – he wasn’t blushing at  _all_  now, and only the occasional hesitation when he spoke was showing him up as actually being affected by Mr Vetinari’s flirtation. “Merely that I’ve, aha, rather hiked up my prices. I’m a luxury that very few can afford, Mr Drumknott.”

“I find that with proper budgeting and hard work, sir, one can eventually afford all but the unaffordable.”

“Mr Drumknott, that makes little to no sense,” Mr Vetinari purred, and he let himself drop into Drumknott’s lap, which was comfortably padded, settling his hands on Drumknott’s cheeks. “Least of all because I’d offer  _you_ , dear boy, a complimentary service.”

Drumknott arched an eyebrow at him, and Vetinari felt like he might  _swoon_. He was so  _unshakable_. When one made one’s living bending every other man to one’s will, it was always so  _exciting_  to come across the rare individual whose will matched one’s own.

There was a knock at the door, and rather than wait for an answer, Vimes just shoved it open.

“Hello, Sam,” Mr Vetinari said pleasantly. Vimes stared at Drumknott, who turned to look at him.

“Hello, Watch Commander,” Drumknott said pleasantly.

“Drumknott, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. Answered his ad in the paper, I s’pose.”

“Indeed. Sir, may I stand?”

“Of course,” Mr Vetinari said. He didn’t move.

Sighing, Drumknott put his hands on Mr Vetinari’s hips, and he pushed Vetinari to stand as he did so himself. Much to Mr Vetinari’s disappointment, his hands  _did not_  linger, but instead, Drumknott moved across the room, to make a cup of tea – likely for Vimes.

“Is this Guild business, or are you harassing one of my children again?” Mr Vetinari asked, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at Vimes very seriously.

“Neither,” Vimes said. “I’m walking somewhere else. Sybil asked me to give you this,” he held out an envelope, which Vetinari let Drumknott pluck neatly from his hand, as Vimes frowned at him, “and to say that it’s about the charity gala on the 19th. Are you still happy to…?”

“Oh, of course,” Mr Vetinari said. “Has she told you what I’m  _doing_ , Sam?”

“Stripping, I suppose,” Vimes said disapprovingly.

“Not at all. I am going to juggle.”

“Juggle?”

“Mmm. And sing somewhat, I expect… Mr Drumknott, do you sing?”

“No, sir, but I play piano.”

“ _Excellent_. By the way, Sam, those tights do  _wonderful_  things for your thighs. You going back to that armour is almost a crime in its—”

“And I’m going,” Vimes said, closing the door behind him, and Vetinari smiled as Drumknott pushed a cup of tea into his hand.

“Isn’t he  _handsome_?” Mr Vetinari asked.

“No, sir,” Drumknott said. “Not really.”

“Oh, pish- _posh_ , Mr Drumknott.”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You’re sure the two of you are alright sharing your bed?” Havelock asked, adjusting his grip slightly on the mushroom, and his hand moved very quickly over the heel of the sock, neatly darning it with easy dexterity.

Sandra, focusing on her own sock, gave a light shrug of her shoulders. “Better than one of us sleeping with you, I think. Imagine Rosie laid in here with you. She kicks in her sleep, you know. It’s one thing kicking me – it’s another kicking _you_. You’ve had enough kicks to last you a lifetime, I expect.”

Havelock smiled wanly, finishing the darn on the sock, and setting it neatly aside before reaching for the next one in the pile. It had been three days since his injury, and he had been in some pain throughout: Doctor Lawn had brought a light analgesic, but he was been doing his best to avoid taking any of it. It made his mind feel slightly slower, and he could scarcely stand the sensation, particularly not when he was already in so vulnerable a position. Aunt Bobbi had brought his luggage that he would have taken on the Grand Sneer, setting his trunk neatly against the side of the room, and—

She _was_ , Havelock was aware, paying half of their rent, as well as giving them a not at all inconsiderable allowance for additional expenses, and, Havelock was more _grimly_ aware, she had taken Rosie out for dinner twice. He could hardly fault her for it, of course. Aunt Bobbi was one that believed in silver linings, particularly when they might be found in another woman’s skirts.

“Besides, you’re pulling your weight, I think,” Sandra said mildly. “Between Madam’s contribution to the rent, and your assistance with my sock duties, you’re doing very well for an invalid.”

“I dislike being idle,” Havelock murmured.

“I’ll show you some more while you’re here, if you like,” Sandra said lightly. “You’re very good with a needle. Steady hands.”

“So long as I don’t inconvenience you,” Havelock said slowly. “I always feel it behoves one to take on new skills and competencies, but if I am distracting you from your work—”

“But you’re nearly as quick as I am,” Sandra said. “Once I showed you how to darn those socks, you were at it like a firework. Work halved, that is, so I’m getting twice as much done. That’s investment.” She met his eyes, and he felt a sense of strange camaraderie. It was not one that he had often experienced, in the Assassins’ Guild: there, one was rather competitive, as one wished to ensure that one didn’t have the best jobs stolen out from under one later on.

 _Trust_ was never something to be actually _trusted_.

Here, it was—

 _Different_.

He wasn’t going to be _foolish_ , no, but his guard could afford to be relaxed, at least somewhat, and that was pleasant enough. He so hated the idea of being _idle_ , in the coming years – what might he be, if not an Assassin? It was so ideal a position: an object of fear as much as one of deep respect, and so easy a set of stepping stones to the Patricianship… So many plans, now unfortunately laid waste to.

Aunt Bobbi had looked into the horse.

It hadn’t been drugged: it had been spooked by a set of sparks from the blacksmiths nearby, and had panicked. They were panicky animals, after all, predisposed to frenzy, and yet…

“You know how to sew buttons onto a shirt already?” Sandra asked.

“Yes, actually, I do,” Havelock said.

“Good,” she said, and deposited the garment in his lap, shoving her basket of buttons across the bed toward him.

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“… and, finally, this is Mr Ed Hickory, who I believe you saw earlier.”

“Mr Hickory,” Drumknott said, shaking the man’s hand, and Hickory gave a nod of his head.

“Don’t harass my clerk any more than you would  _me_ ,” Mr Vetinari said sternly, looking down the row of scantily-clad individuals of negotiable virtue with paternal satisfaction. “And probably a little less than  _that_ , actually.”

“Yes, Mr Vetinari,” they chorused, and Mr Vetinari smiled, leaning on his cane as he led Drumknott toward the door. “Do keep everyone in line, Miss O’Pillory.”

“Yes, Mr Vetinari,” said Miss O’Pillory, a very severe woman of about thirty-five, whose professional specialty was rather along the lines of what Vetinari’s had been, once upon a time. And what a time it had been.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Rosie’s expression was a mask of grim certainty as she pushed the door open. Havelock had a set of dungarees in his lap, and was making himself useful in fixing a tear along the seam of one of the legs, patching it very neatly. He had been here a little under a week now, and settled almost comfortably in the routine of it – he could move a little in the bed, although not much.

“Gentleman to see you, Havelock,” Rosie said.

“Doctor Follett,” Havelock said pleasantly, just before the Assassin could come into view, and he smiled at the way the guildmaster’s expression froze for just a moment as he crossed the threshold, stepping into the room. He sat down on the stool before Rosie’s modest dressing table, his chin high. He had very nice hair, Havelock had always thought – a shock of dignified, snow-coloured whiteness, fine and always so neatly combed. It was his own hair, too. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Rosie said. She remained in the doorway, her gaze fixated on Follett, her arms crossed over her chest, her chin high. Her expression was, he noted, easily commanding, and he saw the affront in Doctor Follett’s face. So… _protective_. Havelock didn’t believe, outside of Bobbi, that anyone had ever been so protective of him before.

“We’re quite alright,” Havelock said. She glanced to him, and he nodded his assurance: reluctantly, she took a step back, drawing the door to, but not entirely closed.

“Nasty accident,” Doctor Follett said. “I never realized, Mr Vetinari, that, uh, _ahem_ , that Bobbi was your aunt. I thought merely that she, ah, employed your services.”

“Oh, do forgive me, Doctor,” Havelock said, taking a casual sip of his tea before putting it back on the nightstand, and focusing once more on his dungarees. He could see the expression on Follett’s face, obsequiousness scarcely serving as a façade for his superiority an disgust. Assassins really _were_ all the same – or so they wished. “I neglected to mention it.”

“Are you in much pain?”

“Not at all,” Havelock lied, and he neatly tied off his thread, folding the dungarees and setting them aside. “You are here, I imagine, about my membership in the Guild.”

“You are, of course, _welcome_ to retain your membership,” Follett said, voice dripping with false sweetness. “But—”

“Oh, I hardly think we need to discuss it at length. We understand one another, I’m sure,” Havelock said airily. “Pass me those trousers, would you?”

Follett glanced to his right, at the pair of trousers resting on the dressing table, and then he picked them up with thumb and forefinger, as if touching them might give him some dreadful disease. Havelock politely ignored this, and took them, taking up a small blade and unpicking the stitches on the hems, that they might be refinished to an equal extent on both ankles.

“Quite a shame, I’m sure,” Follett said, watching Vetinari’s impeccable knifework with complete concentration. “But the Guild has such expectations, young man. Are you—” Follett delicately cleared his throat, and he smiled. One might mistake it for a friendly smile, were one so inclined to that sort of stupidity. His tone, when he spoke, was snide, and somewhat superior: “Are you perhaps planning to make your living here, in the Whore Pits? _Many_ an ex-Assassin does, I’m told.”

Havelock smiled. “Why, Doctor, I’m very flattered,” he said warmly, pretending not to notice the way Doctor Follett’s jaw dropped, the way his eyes widened. “But I’m sure I couldn’t do anything of the sort for _at least_ another few weeks. Perhaps you might come back then?”

Follett was already on his feet, his lip curved in a nasty snarl, but the door opened again then, and Sandra stepped in, stopping as her eyes alighted on him. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” Havelock said, his voice dripping with honey. “Regrettably, I—”

Follett was already leaving, his bootsteps uncommonly loud on the stair, and Sandra watched after him, her eyebrows raised. “Well, what did you say to _him_?” she asked.

“Some men simply can’t stand it when they raise the stakes, and you raise them higher, Sandra,” Havelock said. He felt a curious sense of satisfaction, his lips quirking up at their edges as he set the new hem in the correct position, pinning it in place so that he could better sew it fast to the trouser proper. “Those dungarees are finished.”

“Gods, you’re a _demon_ ,” Sandra said, picking up the dungarees and checking the strength on the patching. “You know, Havelock, you really _would_ make a good tailor.” He liked her quite a bit.

Sandra was cheerful, but fiercely businesslike, when necessary; Rosie, in her own right, was _vicious_ , but also kind. There was a maternal lilt to her nature, he felt, that made her predisposed to looking after others – not out of a sense of obligation to her gender, and nor one that would render her a mother one day, but an obligation she felt to _humanity_ , to kindness at its core. They were each admirable indeed, in their own rights. He would miss them, when he left.

“I was just saying something along those lines myself,” Havelock murmured, and he looked back to the hemming on his trousers.

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Oh, goodness, Mr Drumknott, it’s very nearly midnight! That damned meeting…”

That council meeting had, in fact, been  _awful_. Vetinari’s brains had felt equipped to bleed from his ears by the end of it all, and he was very much in the mood to go straight to bed and read for a few hours in the warmth of his bed, but he did have work to do beforehand.

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott said, seemingly undeterred. He had taken such lovely minutes…

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to walk home at this time of night,” Mr Vetinari murmured, glancing at his pocket watch as if it was somehow at fault for this. “There are some cots we keep aside for drunk patrons. Would you like to sleep on one of those? I wanted to go over some other filing anyway… Oh, dear. I  _promise_  you, Mr Drumknott, I ordinarily won’t work you nearly so hard.”

“I don’t mind, sir,” Drumknott said, his lips quirking into a slight smile as they walked back toward the house.

“Night shifts may well become a necessity, you know.”

“I expected that when I came for the interview, sir.”

“And you will tell me, I hope, if you need something dreadfully?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ve rather ruined my sexually promiscuous image, I suspect, fussing over your beauty sleep.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Drumknott,  _do_  stop calling me sir.”

“You do have a lordship, I could—”

“Don’t you  _dare_.”

“Sir it is, then, sir.”

“You filthy little thing, Mr Drumknott.”

“Squeaky-clean, sir.”

“Oh,  _really_!”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You know,” Sandra said, her gaze on her tea. It had been three weeks, now, and Aunt Bobbi had brought him some books, but being kept in one room rather _is_ grating on him. Doctor Lawn had pronounced him fit for coach travel across the city, and he will go, soon enough.

It would be… _Lonely_ , he thought. He would have Bobbi, yes, but—

“I know?” Rosie echoed. The two of them were both frowning at the Thud board between them, each of them settled on the bed beside him, and Vetinari sipped at his own tea, watching them. They were both learning very quickly how best to play.

“I was just thinking,” Sandra said. “You know John and Harry, when they put that extra wall in?”

“Mm?”

“The attic wouldn’t take too much work, I don’t think,” Sandra said. “To put a proper floor down, and putty the walls. It’d be a small room, smaller than ours are already, but it’d be just fine for me.”

Rosie looked up from the board, and she looked at Sandra’s face, then at Havelock.

“I should not want,” he said slowly, “for the two of you, for my benefit, to—”

“Oh, for _your_ benefit,” Rosie scoffed, flicking him in the ankle and making him frown at her. “We get paid very handsomely, looking after you, you know. It’s in our best interests to keep you for as long as we can. What with the attic, though…” She trailed off, looking very thoughtful. “I could take the attic. It’d be nice. Have some drapery and that, off the ceiling. Very cosy.”

“Are you sure?” Sandra asked.

“Sure as sure,” Rosie murmured. “’Til this one can do the ladder himself.”

“I don’t believe anybody has asked me _my_ opinion,” Havelock said, but he couldn’t quite help the smile on his face, the way that it seemed to pull at his lips without his permission.

“Why would we?” Sandra asked.

“Your opinion is as good for about as much as your leg is,” Rosie said.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Sandra said.

“ _Yes_ ,” Rosie said.

“Threaten,” Sandra said.

“What?” Rosie looked down at the board, and groaned. “Oh! You—”

Havelock laughed, tipping his head back against the headboard, and he ignored the desperate ache in his leg as he relaxed against the mattress.

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Mr Drumknott.”

“Mr Vetinari?”

“I am exhausted.”

“You ought to bed, sir.”

“Perhaps so. Come.” Leading Drumknott from his office, Vetinari lead him down to the cots in one of the side rooms: windowless, but warm, it was a comfortable enough place to spend one’s night. “I might procure for you some pyjamas, if you…?”

“No, sir,” Drumknott said. “That won’t be necessary. Which bedroom is yours?”

“Ah, yes,” Mr Vetinari said, leaning back and pointing to the next flight of stairs. “I’m on the top floor, behind the black-painted door. Do come and knock on my door if you need me in the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“But, _really_ , Rosie, I mean, a guild!”

It had been almost a month and a half, now. Havelock was no longer confined to his bed, but was able to make small movements around the narrow little house, although the stairs did him no favours whatsoever, and often took short walks in the street. He leaned very heavily on a crutch to do so, and was aware he would likely have one – or at least, a cane – for the foreseeable future.

Such as it was.

 He was currently sitting at the kitchen table, carefully doing some repair work on one of Rosie’s skirts, which had gotten caught on a nail as she’d been visiting someone else’s house – the lacework was intricate, and he was doing his best to set it back in place without drawing too much attention to it.

“Why shouldn’t we have a guild?” Rosie demanded, and Havelock heard the door slam shut. “We work hard, don’t we? We deserve guild status, and to be able to band together, and—”

“You’re _batty_ ,” the man said.

“No, she’s upstairs!” Rosie snapped, and Havelock’s lip twitched as he drew his needle over the lace, using a crochet hook to hold the loop in place as he began to pull the thread back through. “Good _afternoon_ , Havelock.”

“Good afternoon,” Havelock said. “Who, pray tell, is your friend?”

The friend stopped in the doorway, coughing awkwardly when he looked at Havelock. Havelock gave him a small smile, one eyebrow artfully raising. He was holding his hat loosely in front of his belly, and he opened and closed his mouth as he looked down at Vetinari’s expectant expression.

“This is Edgar Haddock,” Rosie said as she put the kettle on one of the gas burners. “He’s a merchant.”

Haddock swallowed. He was distinctly average-looking: his face seemed to be a composite of expected features on a human man. Plain, brown eyes; a simple set of lips; features that were neither handsome nor _unhandsome_ , but settled in the median in between. Currently, he was sporting a slight flush on his cheeks.

“My name is _Havelock_ ,” Havelock said pleasantly. He knew, in a distant way, that he was somewhat handsome. Aunt Bobbi had always mentioned it, in a vaguely approving way; Rosie and Sandra had each commented on it, that he was severe, but “handsome enough”. Handsome enough went a long way, in the Whore Pits. “Please, Mr Haddock, won’t you sit down?”

“Oh,” Haddock said, sitting down so hurriedly across from Havelock at the kitchen table that he jarred it, making Havelock let out a low hiss of pain. “Oh, sorry, sorry!”

“It’s no bother,” Havelock murmured, waving his hand, and he shifted his leg. The pain was dull, but ever present, and he did his best to focus on Haddock, instead of his own discomfort. Haddock was certainly concentrating on _Havelock_ , his gaze full of focused concentration as his gaze raked over Vetinari’s tight, black shirt, clinging to his arms and to his chest. He favoured looser clothes, before, that wouldn’t show his body quite so plainly, but—

Well. When in Ephebe…

“Are you, uh, you a friend of Sandra’s?” Haddock asked. He asked it with a sort of eagerness – an eagerness that Havelock would say no. “Or Rosie’s?” Havelock’s smile widened. He was not, he supposed, ever going to be an _Assassin_ again, and while he was very much enjoying tailoring…

“ _Edgar_ ,” Rosie said darkly.

“Oh,” Haddock said, his eyes widening quite comically. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t, er, I just didn’t know—”

“You needn’t be sorry _at all_ ,” Havelock said slowly, deliberately, and he reached across the table, setting his hand over Haddock’s. His hand was warm, but somewhat clammy, but Havelock gave no indication that he noticed. Haddock stared down at it. “Please, continue your business, and then we might, _ahem_. Talk terms.”

“ _Havelock_ ,” Rosie said.

“What?” Havelock asked innocently, leaning back in his seat to look at her. For a long moment, they shared a look.

“I’m not washing your sheets,” she said, finally.

“My dear lady,” Havelock replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Your aunt’ll kill me,” she muttered, pouring out tea.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” Havelock replied idly, and he ducked before Rosie’s palm could make contact with the back of his head, giving Haddock a dazzling smile which made the merchant squirm slightly in his seat.

Later that night, with a pile of coins on the dressing table, and with a sense of _distinct_ satisfaction – the satisfaction of a _hard_ job well done – Havelock did his first piece of embroidery, and relished the look of the cross-stitch once completed.

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Mr Vetinari did not, immediately, go to bed. He undressed, certainly, loosely throwing on his robe, but then he settled with a book. He ordinarily slept at two or three in the morning, to rise at nine o’clock, and it was only just past one. At the knock upon his door, however, he  _frowned_. He recognised the knock of most of the individuals in the house, and this one, this one was unfamiliar.

Mr Vetinari rose from the bed, loosely drawing the belt of his robe over his waist, to give some semblance of modesty[5], and he drew open the door. Mr Drumknott stood in the doorway, his hands loosely clasped in front of his belly, his chin as high as it could be brought. He looked directly at Vetinari's face, not allowing his gaze to wander downward, and Vetinari noticed that his cheeks were already a little red.

"Mr Drumknott?" he asked softly. "I thought our business had concluded for the day."

"Indeed, sir. Business, then pleasure, I thought." Vetinari stared, awed, at the young man in his doorway, whose cheeks were somewhat flushed, but whose expression remained remarkably neutral. A beat passed. "May I come in?"

"Oh, Mr Drumknott," Vetinari said, very slowly. "You do surprise me."

"Not at all, sir,” Drumknott demurred.

Taking a step back, Vetinari let the clerk inside, and he allowed his robe to drop as he pushed the door neatly closed.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Bobbi was saying to me,” Rosie said over dinner, and at this point, Havelock didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the use of his aunt’ first name, “that she’s been thinking of going back to Pseudopolis. Given that you’re well set-up in Ankh-Morpork, I mean.”

“That’s a shame,” Sandra said, her tone full of suspicion.

“Indeed,” Havelock agreed, pouring a little more wine into Rosie’s glass.

It had been a year, now. Havelock no longer lived with Sandra and Rosie, but instead had lodgings of his own, a fairly large house he had been patiently refurbishing whilst _not_ entertaining clients. He was, Rosie and Sandra were each aware, increasingly spoken about across the Whore Pits.

Some women took offence to a boy – and a _rich_ boy, at that – soaking up some of their trade. Vetinari had deftly responded to Mrs Hacker that, obviously, they had very different customer bases.

She hadn’t liked _that_ , either, of course.

“She invited me with her,” Rosie said.

Havelock glanced up from his plate. He and Sandra both stared at Rosemary for a long few moments, the both of them silent.

“Oh,” Sandra said.

“I see,” Havelock said.

“Yes,” Rosie said. She was blushing slightly. Havelock had never seen her blush before, and looked at her with fascination.

“Well,” Sandra said. “That’s… That’s nice.”

“ _Very_ nice,” Havelock agreed. “To your health and happiness.” He raised his glass, and Rosie grinned, copying him. The three of them clinked their glasses together, and each of them drank. “ _Is_ she going to kill you?”

“Not if I kill her first,” Rosie said with a lascivious wink, and Havelock laughed.

 

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“You’ve never done that before, I suppose?” Vetinari mumbled into his pillow, somewhat breathlessly. Drumknott leaned over him, dragging his lips over the base of Vetinari’s spine, and he groaned quietly, spreading his thighs a little farther apart. Drumknott’s fingers were drawing  _lovely_  lines back and forth over his legs, and it was very pleasant indeed.

“No, sir,” Drumknott said. “Not from this end, anyway. Was it alright?”

“Oh, enthusiasm  _very much_  made up for inexperience, my dear,” Vetinari said dreamily. “You know, I don’t usually  _do_  this.”

“Have sex with your employees, sir?”

“You are being  _very_  cheeky, young man.” There was a sudden shift behind him, and Vetinari gasped at the stinging pain on the centre of one of his buttocks, wonderful,  _wonderful_  heat that burned out from Drumknott’s palm.

“Yes, sir,” Drumknott said smugly.

“Allow someone  _else_  to drive the encounter,” Vetinari said. “This is something I reserve, ah,  _entirely_  for non-professional engagements. Most of the time, I never so much as allowed my clients to  _touch_  me.”

“I see, sir.”

“I  _do_  think we can dispense with the sir  _now_.”

“Do you?”

“You might call me Havelock.”

“Might I?”

“You’re being insouciant.”

“Facetious, I would go so far as to say.”

“I wish you’d put your mouth to better work.”

“Alright.”

Vetinari frowned slightly, raising his head from the pillow. “I—  _Oh, Rufus_ —!"

“Havelock?” Drumknott asked.

“Oh, don’t  _stop¸_  you insufferable little—”

Drumknott went back to it, and Vetinari moaned into his pillow.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Oh, look!” said a familiar voice, coming from a mouth that sounded as if it had been stuffed with coins. “It’s Dog-Botherer!”

Havelock Vetinari turned, his lips quirking into a very slight smile. It had been five years since he’d taken a most _unfortunate_ shortcut through the Whore Pits, and he was currently moving through Sator Square, visibly of good mood. He wore a deep red suit, tailored tightly to his breast and to his hips, the trousers similarly drawn in close to the leg, and he cut quite the figure – or so he’d been _told_. He was nothing if he wasn’t _modest_ , after all.

“Hello, Downey,” he said mildly. He leaned on his cane as he moved forward, his gaze flitting over Downey’s friends, who had _not_ gone on the Grand Sneer. Two of them were very pointedly not making eye contact with him, and one of them looked abruptly rather pale, and sweaty.

“Heard you were _injured_.” It was said in a smug, superior tone, as if in reference to a point scored.

“Yes, Downey.”

“Got dropped from the Guild, I heard.”

“I gracefully retired, Downey,” Vetinari allowed, stepping even closer. His gaze flitted to the form of Damien Hurst, who bowed his head slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. He met, instead, the gaze of Duck Sangfroid, who manfully kept his gaze, but seemed to be fighting the long-conditioned urge to drop to his knees.

Vetinari grinned.

“And what do you do now?” Downey asked scornfully.

“What, indeed, Downey?” Vetinari said softly, reaching out and adjusting the tie of Robert Cocksure[6], setting it better against his chest. _Many_ Assassins, he had discovered, visited the Whore Pits in the course of a given week, and given Vetinari’s _particular_ specialisms, he was very popular indeed across all walks of life, but particularly with fellow members of the aristocracy, and _particularly_ with fellow Assassins.

Curious indeed, how these things worked out.

“ _Well_?” Downey asked, expectantly.

“I am a tailor, Downey,” Vetinari said airily.

“Best in the city,” mumbled Duck Sangfroid.

“Oh, Mr Sangfroid, you do _flatter_ me,” Vetinari purred. Sangfroid’s expression showed a desperate, hopeful glee, and it faded as soon as Vetinari looked uncaringly away from him, his gaze on Downey instead[7].

“A _tailor_?” Downey repeated, his voice full of thick glee. “You mean, you— You spend all your days _measuring_ people and getting them dressed up?”

“No,” Vetinari said, looking thoughtful. “I tend to get them _dressed down_. There is measuring, now and then, but such things become so quickly embarrassing, I feel.”

Downey wasn’t listening. He was all but bouncing on his heels, his head tipped back, and laughing. “ _You_. Dog-botherer, on your knees with your tailor’s chalk—”

“Oh, I don’t kneel,” Vetinari said. “Not on a professional basis, anyway.” He winked at Hurst, who swallowed.

“— fussing about with your needlepoint—”

“I don’t think I _fuss_. I’m rather good, Downey.”

“— and completing people’s orders—”

“I tend to _give_ the orders, actually.”

“And making dresses—”

“Making men _wear_ dresses, sometimes,” Vetinari allowed.

“And— What?” Downey’s crowing seemed to have come to a falter, and his triumphant expression fell. He stared at Vetinari, his mouth open, and Vetinari arched an expectant eyebrow.

“Hm?”

“What— What did you just say?”

“Oh, Downey,” Vetinari said chidingly, “have you really not learned to _listen_? I’ve just said rather a lot, I feel.”

“About—” Downey lowered his voice by several notches, staring at Vetinari as if he’d never seen him before. “About men and… And dresses?”

“Making men wear dresses?” Vetinari asked, at normal speaking level. As he spoke, he delicately unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, for it was a very fine summer’s day, and pretended not to notice the way Hurst and Sangfroid were both staring eagerly at the bared flesh of his forearms. Even in a professional setting, Mr Vetinari was not one for displaying _too much_ of his naked form: he felt that to allow glimpses served to titillate far better than to allow one’s eye to gorge.

“I… That isn’t…” Downey trailed off.

“Oh, there are a few young lords who are quite engaged with it,” Vetinari said casually, loosening his cravat slightly and not watching the way Sangfroid sighed. “Silk and lace, so pleasant upon the skin, and of course, there is that element of subtle disgrace, of humiliation… In my view, clothes are but clothes, but there are some men who just _delight_ in being made up prettily, and then insulted for it.”

“Oh,” Downey said. His rosy cheeks were no redder than usual, but he didn’t seem quite able to go on, and Vetinari reached into his jacket, drawing out a business card and sliding it into Downey’s breast pocket. As he did so, he lightly tapped the other man’s belly, which, he noted with amusement, was slightly more prominent than it had been when he had embarked on the Grand Sneer. Downey shivered, staring at Vetinari.

“ _Do_ feel free to drop in,” Vetinari said softly. “My rates are _quite_ reasonable.”

“Now,” Downey said, with the ghost of indignation, but it seemed to fizzle out when Vetinari looked at him, and batted his eyelashes.

Smirking, Vetinari continued on his way, and felt their gazes on his back…

And then lower down.

 

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

“Might I ask you a question?” Mr Vetinari asked the next morning. Drumknott was lying in line with Vetinari’s hip, carefully massaging his bad leg with a _wonderfully_ dexterous left hand, and this meant that Vetinari had a rather lovely view of what _Drumknott_ had to offer.

“Oh, yes,” Drumknott said. “I think so.”

“You were planning this as soon as I whispered in your ear?”

“You started it.”

“Well, _yes_ ,” Vetinari said, and he leaned forward, letting his tongue dart out. Drumknott let out a low noise, his hand momentarily stilling on Vetinari’s thigh, and Vetinari asked, “Pleasure _before_ business, this morning?”

“Yes, please,” Drumknott said, and Vetinari laughed as he bowed his head.

 

[1] Although it might be noticed that he visibly favoured one side.

[2] _“Tailors do it better.”_

[3] Havelock was aware he could not have hired an _Assassin_ , as using such tools as crazed animals would be seen as quite unsportsmanlike, and quite undignified, by the Assassins’ Guild. They very much praised style over anything else.

[4] Young Havelock was somewhat familiar with the practice, but _intimately_ familiar with the scent, owing to careful research and espionage. This was not nearly as sexy a practice as one might hope.

[5] There was no semblance, resemblance, or even the ghost of a semblance of modesty, owing to the fact that this silk robe was very sheer indeed.

[6] Who was currently quite the opposite.

[7] Mr Vetinari had a _famously_ rigorous separation between the professional and the personal, much to the dismay of some of his former classmates.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.
> 
>  
> 
> I run a [Discworld Comm](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/), and there's also [a Discord right here.](https://discord.gg/b8Z3ThH) And please, please, prompt some stuff on [the Prompt Meme!](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/316.html) You can do so anonymously if you want, and you don't need a Dreamwidth account to prompt or to fill!


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